Friday, August 8, 2014

finally floatin' again...

I met Brent
at the take-out point of one of our favorite floats on one of our favorite
rivers. He’d already dropped his Hyde driftboat, along with Scott, miles
upstream waiting for us to return and begin our day trip. We’d leave Brent’s
rig and trailer here and I’d shuttle us up to the landing. There’re always some
logistics involved on these river trips and this seems about the most
comfortable and efficient way of getting the boat, gear, and us from one end of
the trip to the other.

It’s a
little better than a 2 ½ hour drive from my place to the river, so I had a
little time to enjoy the morning cruise and sip some coffee on the way. I
stopped in town for gas and some gas station coffee – not my preferred drink
but the cool coffee shop isn’t open that early in the morning. The early
traffic on the highway was pretty light, mostly folks commuting their way to
jobs in the iron mines and the usual truck traffic. I always see some deer, and
often a fox or coyote along the route. I crossed a few rivers and passed a few
lakes on the way and I turned off the highway and took the little gravel frontage
road along the Cloquet River, just to check the water and try to remember to
set aside some time to fish it. From there I headed to the paper-mill town of
Cloquet, which sits along the St. Louis River (go figure) and stop for my
second cup at The Warming House coffee shop. I was in no hurry but I only
wanted coffee so I pulled into the drive thru and stopped behind the SUV
waiting at the window.

I had plenty
of time and was enjoying the radio, but in my mind using the drive-thru at a
coffee shop should be a relatively quick experience and the lone person in the
vehicle ahead reminded me there should be some kind of understood, if
unwritten, etiquette about grabbing a cup to go. I mean, if you’re ordering the
complicated stuff that’s gonna take a while for the barista to put together,
and you’re ordering a number of them for the gang at the office, and you want
extra cream for one, no whipped on another, and will decide in a minute or so
if you’ll have the peach-lavender cream cheese Danish or the gluten free
muffin, you really ought to park in the lot and go inside for that. I shut off
my truck when I saw a couple of cups passed out the window but still the SUV
didn’t move. I sat listening to the radio and thinking about fishing. A song
and a half later the brakes lights of the SUV brought me out of my daydream and
a minute later I was on the road with a steaming cup of decent coffee. The
little black car that came in behind me for coffee passed me before I got to
the stoplights and I had the feeling they were more irritated than I was.

Then it was
an hour of freeway driving at the speed of light: around 70-75 miles-per-hour I
suppose, something like that. That’s when the radio gets tuned to the first
rock station it can find. Classic BTO singing “I can’t drive…Fifty-Five!” None
too soon it’s off the freeway and down to the river. What a pretty sight.

Across the
river from the landing there’s a little point of land that catches current and
makes for a perfect looking run that should hold a nice fish. Just below that
there’s a slack water eddy just inside the seam that can’t be passed up. It’s a
hopeful place to start fishing and we never pass it up. It doesn’t matter that
we’ve never caught a fish there. Never even had a strike. One day one of us
will hook a whopper there and it will all make sense. It just takes one.

Scotty took
the first round at the oars while Brent cast his white foam blockhead to the
shoreline and I worked the water with a deer-hair olive and red toad pattern.
It was a perfect morning, sunny and still and we were all happy to be there.
Brent scored first, a beauty of a smallmouth, and we all looked upriver after
he landed it. It’s nice to catch the first fish in sight of the bridge but we
were just beyond it. Brent worked his white foam blockhead long and hard with
good effect as it popped along the surface like a venerable bubble machine. I
switched flies several times and caught fish on my deer-hair toads and a
variation of a Dahlberg Diver I call a froghawk for no good reason, as well as
a proven frog pattern blockhead. Scott spent most of the day tossing his big
musky flies, hoping for the 40 incher which would be a good fish for that
water.

I first
fished this river with Scott. It was all about the smallmouth bass, then. I
used my 6 wt. rod and cast my hand painted poppers that I now call cute little things.
It’s still about the bass, but the pike started nipping our leaders and
somewhere along the way the muskies living in the river gained our attention.
Heavier rods and lines were in order to toss bigger flies attached to wire
leaders. I buy cheap flipflop sandals and chop them up to make flies. Fly boxes
look like briefcases now. And is it ever fun!

The musky
came with a violent strike on one of my deer-hairs. I was in the back of the
boat and got a glimpse of shape and called it a pike. Brent had a better look
and announced “No pike, it’s a SKIE!” and the fight was on. The fish cleared
water several times trying to shake free and I was having a ball playing it. We
had it near the boat several times before we could net it, and we saw the
leader crossways in its mouth the way an untrained pup bites the leash the
first time he feels it. Glad to have that wire leader. We didn’t measure it but
it wouldn’t make the 40 inches – still a good fish like they all are and after
a couple of quick photos it was back in the water.

I’ve caught
a few muskies before but only a couple fly fishing. I know they are in the
river, but I don’t expect them. Even on a river known for muskies I was
surprised when I caught one. They’re the kind of fish you keep track of, though
it’s easy for me to keep track of the small number I’ve caught. I recently
watched a video about a couple of well-known Minnesota fly fishing musky
hunters. Being interviewed they were asked how many muskies they’ve caught.
Both were vague about the actual number, one said “less than 50, but I’m
workin’ on it,” but I know he knows the exact fish that will take him over the
half-century mark. I guess I could honestly say the same thing.

We kind of
goaded Scott about casting his arm off with his out-sized musky flies while I
landed “his” fish on a #2 hook, but that’s fishing and we all know it. Besides,
he’s a skilled angler and has landed well more muskies than I have – but I’m
working on it!

No one wants
to see a good day end, but by the time we get to the take-out, we’re all kinda
tired. I know my casting gets pretty sloppy – I suppose I don’t practice enough
– and on these trips we’re either casting or rowing, which involves its own
skill set, so it’s a real active day on the river. There’s nothing better.

About Me

Lucky enough to be raised by an outdoorsman father, I've been messing around with dogs, guns, fishing rods, canoes, tents, snowshoes, etc., my entire life. And it's not over yet. I like good bourbon, good books, and honest, genuine folks. Good fishing and happy hunting to you. -- Al Ranfranz